


Whose Woods These Are

by OceanTheSoulRebel



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Background Morrigan x Warden, Gen, Parenting Feels, You're warned, also: character growth, because fuck yeah, like I cried while writing this so, lots of 'em
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-02-21 14:10:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18703906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OceanTheSoulRebel/pseuds/OceanTheSoulRebel
Summary: Hiraeth: the link with the long-forgotten past, the language of the soul, the call from the inner self. Half forgotten - fraction remembered. It speaks from the rocks, from the earth, from the trees and  in the waves. It's always there.[Val Bethell]Alistair meets the consequence of choices made.





	Whose Woods These Are

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my great betas for help naming this piece and for giving me feedback on this story!
> 
> \- [Taselby (AO3)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taselby)
> 
> \- [ApostateTabris (Tumblr)](https://apostatetabris.tumblr.com/)/[Apostate (AO3)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/394percentdone/pseuds/apostate)
> 
> \- [October-Rosehip (Tumblr)](https://october-rosehip.tumblr.com/)/[Rosehip (AO3)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosehip)

“Wardens.” 

Snow had fallen like a thick blanket, muffling the Wilds into a frozen hush. Even the frogs Alistair remembered from the last time they were here—what, almost three years ago now?—were silent. 

Which made Morrigan’s voice only that much more grating. 

“Morrigan! You’re a hard bitch to hunt down, you know that, _vhenan?_ " Mahariel laughed and rushed forward, sweeping her into a hug that was more a hostage situation than a greeting, but Morrigan laughed and kissed Lyna's brow affectionately. 

“Lyna,” Morrigan cooed, and Alistair frowned at the wide smile he saw grace her features. “I hear ‘tis ‘Warden Commander’ now.”

“Your hearing must be as good as mine, then, to get that news all the way out here. Creators, woman, how I’ve missed you.” 

There was a _wistfulness_ to Lyna’s voice that made Alistair squirm under his cloak. He dropped his gaze to study the trees around them, but not before he saw Morrigan’s eerie eyes fall to him, the shift of her mouth.

“Come, Wardens. ‘Tis not far to the house.” Morrigan pulled the furred hood of her coat up over her head and led them from the clearing. He ignored the way her hand still found Lyna’s own, now two years after the Blight ended and she disappeared. 

“'‘Tis not far,'” Alistair grumbled mockingly. He had only just finally gotten her blasted voice out of his head and now they were here. Ugh. Who even talks like that? 

Alistair followed them at a distance, more out of caution than politeness. Who knew how much more wily she could have grown over the years? He might need to watch Lyna’s back even more now. They were both important people, after all, and…

But their hands clasped in easy familiarity, in a way that made his fingers ache with more than just the cold. “Witch thief,” he muttered into his scarf. Alistair hustled through the snow behind them. 

The hut Morrigan brought them to was different than the one she grew up in, the one he and Lyna woke up in after the disaster that was the Battle of Ostagar. It didn’t have a creepy old woman who turned into a dragon hanging around outside, for one. In fact, it looked downright cheery in comparison to Flemeth’s hut, nestled into the woods as it was. This one was neatly walled and shingled, with shuttered windows tucked against the wall and a chimney that billowed smoke toward the sky. A small lean-to sheltered a tall stack of haphazardly split logs of firewood near the door. 

“It’s as crowded as an aravel! Tell me, _vhenan,_ were you secretly Dalish in a previous life? You were, weren’t you?” 

“Not crowded, just… I have a lot of supplies. A lot of learning and experimentation to do.” 

“Oh yeah, because a big, scary mage like you uses a whole shelf full of carved goats for her big, scary magic, right?” 

Lyna’s laughter crackled in the dry air. Alistair knocked the snow from his boots where he stood in the doorway and unwrapped himself from his cloak and scarf. Lyna took no such cautions, bringing in snow as if solely to tempt Morrigan’s sharp tongue, but Morrigan only shook her head and gave a small smile. 

He hadn’t seen Lyna smile so wide, or even so much, in all the time since the Archdemon fell, and the closer they got to the prearranged meeting spot she had become buoyant and light, like some spirit of Joy he’d heard about once. 

She must have really missed Morrigan, Alistair thought, watching them together. They hardly touched but orbited each other as Morrigan led Lyna through the hut, showing off the sectioned-off rooms that housed the various pieces of her life here. 

Lyna was gonna come back, right? She’d come back to Amaranthine and to life in Ferelden… right?

“...Ali?” 

He shook himself from the thoughts to find them alone and Lyna staring at him. “Yes? Oh! Yes. Sorry. What?”

Lyna frowned, just a little. “Morri asked if you wanted tea. She’s got… something tasty, probably. Hopefully. It’s all just leaf juice to me but she seems to like it, so... You okay?” 

“I, uh, just tired. Not used to tracking and hiking and all that anymore.” He forced a laugh and patted his stomach over the thick fabric of his gambeson. “You know me, getting soft and such.” 

She cocked her head. “You sure?”

“It’s nothing, I promise.” He plastered on a smile that did nothing to banish his thoughts but did seem to reassure Lyna somewhat. She left him with a nod and followed the sound of Morrigan in another room. 

He exhaled heavily and seated himself at a table that sat nestled against the wall. It wobbled a touch. Alistair frowned. It surely wasn’t helpful, to have a table that wobbled, not that he knew much about carpentry or furniture crafting to really do anything about it. He lowered to his knees anyway to check the source of the problem. 

Which is how the toddler he’d wondered about and ultimately tried to ignore, the one that gave him a roiling stomach and anxious night-sweats, tottered on unsteady legs to watch him fiddle with the table leg. 

The boy made a garbled noise and Alistair startled, hitting his head on the table with a sharp yelp. “Maker’s—oh, uh. Hi, you.” He rubbed his head and crawled back out from under the table, and tried not to stare too obnoxiously. “Hi.” 

“Hi,” the boy said back, in a long, drawn-out syllable. He held a stuffed toy in hand that might have been a dog if Alistair squinted and focused hard on it—and he did, because the alternative was just a little more terrifying than he was really ready for. 

“I see you’ve met.”

He winced at Morrigan’s bland tone. Alistair scrambled to his feet as she approached. Morrigan set two steaming cups down on the table and bent to neatly scoop the boy into her arms. “Yeah,” he said, tense. “Uh. Cute kid.” 

She rubbed her nose against the now-squirming toddler’s temple. “Kieran,” she supplied. Her gold eyes darted to him, almost in challenge. “It’s Chasind.”

“It’s cute, just like him,” Lyna cooed. “I wanna hold him!” 

“Kieran, this is Lyna, she’s your…” Morrigan paused thoughtfully. “What would you prefer to be called, my love?” 

Lyna blushed. Alistair’s stomach did that flip-floppy thing he was, unfortunately, getting used to again, the one that happened whenever the two of them were in close proximity to each other. 

“Well, I don’t know,” she demurred. “Kinda your decision, isn’t it?” Lyna carefully took Kieran from Morrigan’s grasp, settling him across her chest with an unbearably gentle look. “You could be _mamae_ and I could be just Lyna if you wanted. I’m good with whatever.” 

“You can be called whatever you want, love,” Morrigan said softly. Her arm wrapped around Lyna’s shoulders and they were the picture of a happy little family. For the first time, really. Good for them. 

“Oh, and this is Alistair,” Lyna said. She shifted to face Kieran forward toward him. “He’s your…?” She trailed off with a quizzical glance between him and Morrigan. 

Alistair hadn’t been sure whether he was relieved that Kieran took after Morrigan so strongly. There wasn’t a lot of him he could see there, just Morrigan’s pale complexion and dark hair. The boy blinked and stared at him with such an openly curious face he couldn’t resist coming closer, as if drawn in. He made it two steps before his heart stopped in his chest.

 _His eyes._ They were huge in Kieran’s pudgy face, golden brown and bright and _his._

“I’m a friend,” Alistair croaked. His eyes suddenly prickled over with gathering tears. “I’m just a friend.” He cleared his throat and offered two fingers in an abbreviated handshake. “Nice to meet you, Kieran. Heard a lot about you.” 

“Hi,” Kieran said again, grabbing his hand in a loose grip and immediately chewing on his fingertips.

Alistair laughed even as the tears threatened to spill. He took a step backward. “I, uh, need some air,” he muttered. Only years of being yelled at for running indoors had him walking, rather than bolting with all his might, toward the door. 

Oh, Maker. Oh, another little boy without a father. Would Morrigan tell him the truth when he was older, like Alistair had wished for himself for so long? Eamon had only told him about Maric and his mother shortly before ordering him sent to Bournshire Monastery to join the Templar Order.

 _“You’ll understand when you’re older, my boy,_ ” Eamon had said then, and after he had left Alistair had cried the hardest he ever had in all his ten short years. All that time - in all that time, his father had been alive and well, and no one had told Alistair. No one had cared about the feelings of an alienated little boy, and he’d eventually convinced himself that it didn’t matter, that it didn’t change things. 

Would he inadvertently pass that lesson onto his own son? 

He threw himself into the snowy woods that stood outside the hut, passing through the brush to collapse against a tree trunk. Alistair clamped his hand over a choked sob that threatened to burst from him. He knew, he _knew_ this would happen—that, if he lay with Morrigan and aid her magic that would save them all, pregnancy and a child could arrive. She had all but confirmed it that night, her amber eyes both haughty and vulnerable at his questions. 

 _“‘Tis but an option,”_ she had snapped, arms crossed uncharacteristically tight across herself. _“One that might preserve both your lives. ‘Tis your choice to make, Alistair, but know that time is swiftly running out.”_

And, Maker help him, Alistair had made it.

He cried until the shaking stopped, until his eyes were hot and tired, until his throat was raw with grief both familiar and strange. Alistair stared out into the forest, watched the breeze shake through the bare branches of the nearby bushes. Footsteps crunched through the crisp snow behind him. 

“I’m sorry,” he called dully, voice scratchy. “I just… need a minute.” 

His cloak flew and draped itself inelegantly over his lap. Alistair looked up and frowned. “Shouldn’t you be inside?”

“I could ask you the same,” Morrigan shot back, but there was no sharpness to her words. She pulled her cloak about her thin frame and settled beside him. “‘Tis cold,” she prompted when he didn’t do the same. “You’ll catch your death.” 

“I’m a Grey Warden, it’ll take more than some snow to do me in. Though Maker knows it’s tried,” he said with a shudder, recalling the avalanche that had threatened to do just that in the Frostbacks during the Blight. Alistair shrugged into the fur lining of his cloak anyway. “...thank you.” 

They sat in awkward silence. It had been too long since they had spent any notable length of time together, and even during the Blight, it had rarely been time alone together, certainly not of their own volition. Alistair drew his arms across his middle, tucking his cold fingers into the fabric of his tunic. 

“Lyna tells me of your work in Denerim,” Morrigan said eventually. “Says you’ve done well in the palace. I admit to being surprised; you had protested when it was presented to you, before the Landsmeet.” 

He nodded, gaze focused into the middle distance. “They all think I can do it. Be the king, I mean. Here I am, a nobody with no experience, and the Landsmeet backs me over anyone else actually qualified. They’d never supported their loving queen nearly so warmly, not in all her years at King Cailan’s side.” He sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know how Anora did it all, any of it. And now she’s gone.” 

She hummed thoughtfully. “Transitions in leadership are rarely clean, so I’ve seen. And rarely painless. Still… Lyna says she is proud of you. That you support her and have helped immensely, in a myriad of ways. I… wish to thank you for that.” 

Alistair huffed. “She’s a good friend,” he said, as if by rote. And Andraste’s pyre it had become such over the years, a mantra he had to repeat to himself often. 

“Is that all she is to you?”

He slanted a glance to her. Morrigan only stared blankly ahead, her hands held stiffly against her lap. “...no,” he admitted, “but that’s what we are. Lyna told me once that it wouldn’t work, and I took her at her word.” Alistair sighed and hung his head. “Even then Lyna only had eyes for you. Can’t really compete with that, now can I?” 

“Easily,” she countered. “You are the King of Ferelden, and I a simple witch hiding in the woods. You gave her titles and land and purpose when she had none. What kind of life could I offer her?”

“You’ve given her family.” 

Morrigan scoffed. “She already has a family. She has you, and that disgusting dog.” 

“Mabari aren’t disgusting, they’re noble beasts! And Barkspawn isn’t just a dog.”

“Trust a Fereldan to swear there’s a difference,” she scoffed. 

Alistair shook his head. “So did you come out here just to insult Bark and rub everything in my face, or…?”

“I came out here to say…” Morrigan trailed off and fiddled with the edge of her cloak for a moment before resuming. “I came out here to say that I, too, was raised fatherless. And, while I do not know about the exact details of your childhood, I understand it was less than ideal.” 

“You can say that again,” Alistair said under his breath. 

“Flemeth was… not a perfect mother. She was hardly a mother at all, really,” Morrigan mumbled, fingers clenched together. She quickly looked over her shoulder, scanning the forest around them. “But… I vowed to be better than her. To raise Kieran better than that. As a person, not a—” Morrigan grimaced and shook her head. “I made a promise to be the best parent I can be for him. And to that end…” 

Morrigan withdrew a small token from an interior pocket and handed it over. It was a hinged pendant, designed and wrought in the image of a book; a short press of a button along its spine revealed a tiny inner chamber that housed a dark twist of hair. 

“What is this?”

“It’s a Chasind tradition,” Morrigan said quietly. “So that loved ones are never truly separated. I wear one, as well.” She pulled at a chain around her own neck to reveal a matching locket. “We were never friends back then, and I cannot say if we ever will be, of our own volition. But Kieran is more important to me than that.”

Alistair clutched the locket in his fist and pressed it against his brow. “Can I—” He couldn’t suppress the sob that wrenched from his chest. “When he’s older, can I… can I write to him? To you? You don’t have to say yes, but… I would have wanted that.” Alistair’s voice wavered. “With all my heart.” 

“He won’t be yours,” she said sharply, and he started, flinching at the determination in her tone. “He will never be a prince of Ferelden. Kieran is of the Wilds, not of your people.”

He wilted and clutched the pendant tighter. Its sharp edges bit into his palm and he focused on that, the pain pure and bright in his hand. “You’re right,” Alistair said wetly, wiping his tears on his wrist. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I—I’m sorry.” 

Morrigan rose to her feet with an eerie grace and flicked him upside the head with her fingertips. “‘Twasn’t a ‘no,’" she said with a scoff. “Just…” 

Alistair looked up. Morrigan seemed as uncertain as he felt, her brows drawn and eyes hooded. She looked to the hut for a long moment before turning her gaze back to him. 

“‘Tis not in my power to say what the future holds, but Ferelden will not have him. That, I _will_ promise you. He is the son of a witch, and even if he is not touched by magic, the circumstances of his birth would send the Chantry after him if they ever find out.” Morrigan extended her hand to him. “But he will know his father is a brave man, a kind man.” She shuffled on her feet. “A good man.” 

Alistair stared at her, his gaze flickering from her hand to her face. Morrigan’s mouth pressed into a firm line. 

“Are you coming inside or not? The cold may not threaten you, Warden King, but it is still the depths of winter for those without your curse.” 

He looped the pendent’s chain around his neck before taking her hand, letting her help him up. She was surprisingly strong; was that always the case, or was that something gained since the Blight? 

“Okay,” he said. His voice wobbled and he laughed weakly, wetly. Alistair pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes until he saw stars. “That’s the best I could really ask for. You’re right. I never said that enough, but you were, and you are.” 

“Let the past lie, Alistair.” Morrigan gave a half-smile. “We are different now, you and I. Besides,” she said smugly, “‘twas enough that I knew it all along.” 

He shook his head. “Can I… hug you?” he hazarded. 

Morrigan cocked a brow. “I will allow it.” She came a half-step closer and held out her arms stiffly; her hands patted awkwardly at his back and smoothed over his cloak as he shook in her embrace. “Come back inside, Alistair,” she murmured. “There is much to discuss.” 

“...okay,” Alistair said with a sniff. They parted and he let her pull ahead, watching her back as she hurried back to the hut. His hand rose to his chest to wrap around the locket. Morrigan turned back at the door, backlit by the warm lights of the house.

“Okay,” he repeated to himself. Alistair tucked the locket beneath his tunic and followed. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I appreciate comments and kudos, and strive to answer them all! 
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr: [@Ocean-In-My-Rebel-Soul](https://ocean-in-my-rebel-soul.tumblr.com/)  
> Follow me on Twitter: [@OceanSoulRebel](https://twitter.com/Ocean_SoulRebel)


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